


turning in a circle

by orphan_account



Category: Super Junior
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-11
Updated: 2006-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 16:47:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Donghae waits for Heechul to get out of the army.





	turning in a circle

Donghae meets Heechul for the first time in the dorms. He’s walking past and he sees the music sliding out from the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor, notes slipping out flat and filling out to three dimensional shapes that slip between his fingers and bounce off the walls as they search for the windows. He knocks and the rest bumps against his bare ankles as the music stops and the door opens.

//

Donghae knocks on Heechul’s door the morning he leaves for the army and Heechul lets him in.

“It’s early, Dorrobong,” he says in a whisper, voice sleep rough, and Donghae shrugs.

“I’ll miss you, hyung,” he says, and when Heechul hugs him his breath hitches, makes the hair on Heechul’s arms quiver and straighten. Heechul brushes a kiss across his cheek with dry lips and sparks light up pale blue between their skin.

//

Jungsu is the one that says it first, stretched out on their crappy dorm couch leaning on Youngwoon eating dried snow pea snacks with salty fingers, and Donghae doesn’t think much of it then, because Youngwoon shoves Jungsu off him with a grin and Jungsu’s elbow knocks into Donghae’s ankle and then he’s got one yellow sock and one white sock, spreading out in concentric circles from the dot where Jungsu’s skin touched cotton fiber.

“Hyung,” he protests, and Jungsu shrugs.

Donghae thinks about it, after, what Jungsu had said, and watches Heechul out of the corner of his eyes. _Hyung is a magnet_ , he thinks, and it makes sense, the people that orbit him like moons, the way he likes it when Hankyung wears necklaces made of little links of metal chain.

//

Donghae dreams of compasses. He dreams of the moment the poles switch, all that power snapping back and forth between two fixed points and the glass cracking as the red needle spins. He wakes with a gasp and the carpet sends little shocks of comfort up through his toes as he creeps to the room that used to be Heechul’s. The rings he forgot to take off before he slipped into bed tug at his fingers until he fits them around Heechul’s doorknob and the metal tips of the string around the hood of his sweatshirt point in straight lines to the bed pushed against the wall, the nightstand covered lightly in dust.

The sheets still smell like Heechul, the duvet rumpled in the shape of his body no matter how many times the auntie who cleans smoothes it away, and Donghae slips into the indent. His earring tugs his head to the pillow and he sleeps, dreams of Heechul playing the piano, long fingers and nails that shine bluntly.

//

Heechul is in the hospital for two weeks before Donghae visits him. 

“Don’t shock me, Hae,” he rasps, and Donghae touches his fingertips to the metal rails around the hospital bed, feels the deep current jolt on his skin before he takes Heechul’s hand.in his.

“Hyung,” he says wetly, and Heechul smiles at him, a little out of focus, and hums a snippet of song that skitters just out of Donghae’s reach, slipping out the window into the sun. He cries little hitching tears that make the machines hooked to Heechul’s fingers and chest beep out of rythym and make scritchscratch noises.

“Ssh,” Heechul says, and the metal railings scream as they twist and turn until they cradle Donghae’s fingers, warm and contoured to his skin, comfort in layers of shiny alloy.

//

On the anniversary of Donghae’s father it lightnings in the dorm, streaks of electric blue lancing from the ceiling to the floor and making the television crackle as it shows, on repeat and in two second increments, the curling championship of 1978. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sungmin says, and slaps the side of it with a flat palm.

Donghae writes Heechul a letter. Every time he gets past tracing Heechul’s name in his cramped crooked script the ink turns to water on the page, makes the paper heavy and the pen tip rip and tear through to the page below.

“You’re staining the table,” Shindong says, sighing, and helps Donghae pat a page down with a paper towel until it’s dry enough to slip into an envelope, a single sheet of paper swirled with watered ink, Heechul’s name at the top and Donghae’s at the bottom.

Donghae kneels by his bed and closes his eyes. He thinks of all the things he’d like to say to his father, the things he’d like to hear, and struggles against he pressure in his chest, rising in his throat and choking up his words. Around his neck the little cross Hyukjae had given him for his birthday warms against his skin, and little by little he breathes easy.

When he opens his eyes the lamp stand on the desk is twisted towards him, the zippers on the clothes hanging over the chair are pointed at him, the clasps and chains of the jewelry on the dresser vibrating to him like a tuning fork, all the metal in the room stretched and straining to him and emanating warmth that curls in his chest and tingles in his fingers.

//

The night before the funeral, before the accident, Heechul finds Donghae sitting on the roof, shivering and trying to light a cigarette.

“Let me do that,” Heechul says impatiently, and takes the lighter from him. Donghae inhales once and Heechul snatches that from his lips too, taking an easy drag and watching the smoke dissipate into the night. 

“Hyung,” Donghae pouts and Heechul twists up one corner of his mouth in a smirk. 

“Bad for you,” he says, and blows the next mouthful into Donghae’s face. “Come here,” he says, and Donghae shifts over to press against the slimness of Heechul’s side. Heechul trails a fingertip up Donghae’s bare arm, from the inside of his wrist to the back of his shoulderblade, his nail scratching against the vein, and Donghae feels his blood warm, the iron following Heechul’s finger with the lightest tingle. He leans his head on Heechul’s shoulder and takes a deep breath.

//

Donghae crawls into Hyukjae’s bed at two in the morning and Hyukjae makes a snuffly questioning noise.

“I miss Heechul-hyung,” he whispers, and Hyukjae tugs him under the covers.

“S’ok Donghae-yah.”

“My dad is dead,” Donghae says, and Hyukjae goes still.

“I know,” he says, and curls his fingers into Donghae’s as Donghae starts to cry, a river of tears that trickle down the bed and pool on the floor until the bed floats and the air smells like salt. “Look,” he whispers, and Donghae tilts his head up to see the stars painted gold on black velvet on the ceiling, Hyukjae pushing on the wall with his foot until they rock on the waves and Donghae falls asleep.

“You shorted out my speakers,” Hyukjae complains in the morning, waving the vacuum wand as he cleans the salt residue, and Donghae shrugs, throwing a tennis ball against the wall and catching it with one hand. 

//

The first letter from Heechul comes almost three weeks before he’s done with his service, and Donghae finds it two days after Ryeowook had opened it and tossed it aside. It’s rambling and dashed off in a fast hand, mostly mocking observations and reminders to treat each other well. The last two lines are addressed to him, a thank you for his letter and something scratched out that almost looks like _sarangheyo_ when Donghae holds it up to the light.

“Donghae,” Siwon says from chest-height, and Donghae looks down. Siwon sighs, and curls his fingers around Donghae’s hips, pulls him back down the earth. He pats Donghae on the head. “Be careful about hyung,” he says, “what if the ceiling fan was on?”

//

Youngwoon drives them to pick Heechul up, and Donghae fidgets in the backseat, Hyukjae sitting next to him and fucking around on his phone.

“I’m nervous,” Donghae says, and Hyukjae looks up.

“Why? It’s just hyung.”

“I don’t know,” Donghae says, and presses his hands to his stomach. There’s a fluttering in his chest, and when he curls his fingers around his mouth and opens them again there’s a butterfly in his palm, painted red and yellow. Its wings tickle his knuckles.

“Gross,” Youngwoon says, and Hyukjae laughs, rolls down the window at a red light so Donghae can let it go.

//

Heechul’s hair has grown out, long down to his shoulders, and he mutters to himself as he adjusts it in the bathroom mirror. “Hey,” he says, “come here.”

Donghae slips into the bathroom and leans against the wall. “I missed you.”

“I want to tell you a story,” Heechul says. “one night I actually missed you guys.”

“Thanks hyung,” Donghae says, and Heechul flaps a hand at him.

“I’m not done. I really missed everyone, and I couldn’t sleep.”

“You could have called,” Donghae says, and his feet slip on the tile.

“Stop interrupting me,” Heechul demands, and flicks water droplets off his fingers at Donghae’s face. “I tried to call, but all I got was static, I don’t know. So I went outside and stepped in this giant fucking puddle.” He steps closer to Donghae, his fingers falling hesitantly on Donghae’s waist. “And this tin star fell out of the sky into my hands.”

Donghae closes his eyes and thinks of Heechul in army clothes, standing alone on an army base with his hands stretched to the sky on the night Donghae watched the stars spin across Hyukjae’s ceiling, and when he opens them Heechul’s face is very close to his, he can feel Heechul’s breath on his lips.

“I--” he says, and Henry bangs on the door.

“I have to pee!” he shouts, and Donghae jumps. Heechul slips through the door and Donghae knocks shoulders hard with Henry.

“You don’t even live here,” he says, and ignores Henry wounded look.

//

Donghae knocks on Heechul’s door and it creaks open. He steps in and takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. 

“He’s on the roof,” Siwon says, lounging on Heechul’s bed reading a magazine.

Heechul is smoking on the roof, waving his hands in the air and talking to himself. 

“Hyung,” Donghae says, and Heechul spins around, looking startled.

“Donghae,” he says, and drops the cigarette. Donghae presses the toe of his shoe into the embers and grinds them into ash. He twists his fingers into the front of Heechul’s shirt and tugs them closer. Heechul smells like smoke and the air freshener from the dorms, and his breath stutters under Donghae’s hands.

“Heechul,” Donghae says, and presses his palm over Heechul’s mouth when he goes to speak. “I love you, hyung.” Heechul’s face contorts under his fingers, mumbling, and when Donghae takes his hand away there’s a red and yellow butterfly sitting on Heechul’s lips. 

Heechul blows out a stream of air and the butterfly flits off into the sky. “I’m nervous,” Heechul says, and smiles.

“I know,” Donghae says, and kisses him. Heechul’s mouth opens under his, and he presses down onto Donghae, knocks their hips together and slides a hand up Donghae’s spine. The metal buttons of Donghae’s jeans pop off and stick to Heechul’s forearm, their hair floats in a staticky halo around their faces.

Donghae opens his eyes and sees Heechul smiling at him. “I missed you,” Heechul breathes, and tries to flatten their hair, laughing, and when Donghae looks down they’re standing on sunshine, watching Seoul stretch out beneath them.


End file.
